“Did you get a legacy from him?”
“No.” Some emotion was mobilizing Winslow’s blood and turning his face pink. “He sneered at me. He left me six cents in his will. He didn’t like me.”
Wolfe turned to speak to Cramer, but the inspector forestalled him. “Two men are already on it. The shooting accident was up in Maine.”
“I would like to say how I feel about this,” Winslow told them. “I mean the questions that have been asked me about my uncle’s death. I regard them as a compliment. They assume that I might have been capable of shooting my uncle, and that is a very high compliment, and you say there are two men on it, so it is being investigated, and that is a compliment too. My aunt would be amused at the idea of my having killed Uncle Norton, and she would be amused at the idea that I might try to kill her. I wouldn’t mind a bit having her know about that, but if she finds out what I went to Leo Heller for — God help me.” He gestured in appeal. “I was promised, absolutely promised.”
“We disclose people’s private affairs,” Cramer rumbled, “only when it is unavoidable.”
Wolfe was pouring beer. When the foam was at the rim he put the bottle down and resumed. “I have promised nothing, Mr. Winslow, but I have no time for tattle. Here’s a suggestion. You’re in this pickle only because of your association with Mr. Heller, and the question is, was there anything in that association to justify this badgering? Suppose you tell us. Start at the beginning, and recall as well as you can every word that passed between you. Go right through it. I’ll interrupt as little as possible.”
“You’ve already seen it,” Cramer objected. “The transcript, the statement — what the hell, have you got a lead or haven’t you?”
Wolfe nodded. “We have a night for it,” he said, not happily. “Mr. Winslow doesn’t know what the lead is, and it’s Greek to you.” He went to Winslow. “Go ahead, sir. Everything that you said to Mr. Heller, and everything he said to you.”
It took more than an hour, including interruptions. The interruptions came from various city employees who were scattered around the house — the front room, the dining room, and three upstairs bedrooms — working on other scared citizens, and from the telephone. Two of the phone calls were from homicide dicks who were trying to locate a citizen who had got mislaid — one named Henrietta Tillotson, Mrs. Albert Tillotson, the overfed matron whom I had seen in Heller’s waiting room with the others. There were also calls from the police commissioner and the DA’s office and other interested parties.
When Purley Stebbins got up to escort Winslow from the room, Wolfe’s lead was still apparently Greek to Cramer, as it was to me. As the door closed behind them Cramer spoke emphatically. “I think it’s a goddam farce. I think that message was NW, meaning you, and you’re stalling for some kind of a play.”